Dreams Come True (1D Fan Fic)

Ivy Kiloro has been through her share in tragedy. After her only relative, Uncle Mike, dies of an overdose, the courts order her to be sent to an orphanage. Then one day, a group of lab technicians come and take a DNA swab from Ivy. Then the unbelieveable happens. This 17 year old, normal, nonspecial girl, was Harry Styles younger sister. Life is good, but what will happen when she gets close to one of Harry's bandmates?

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4. Chapter 3

*Ivy's P.O.V.*

"Okay," Harry says, turning to me. "There will be a lot of fans and they will try to drag you away. Zayn will have a hold on your left hand, I on your right. The others will walk ahead. Do not look up, do not acknowledge the fans in anyway. And whatever happens, do not let go of Zayn's hand. I'll let go about halfway through to try and distract them. Understood?" I nod. Liam grips the door handle and Zayn grabs my hand. "1, 2, 3, GO!" They jump out, pulling me with them. The fans scream and claw at me, a few getting lucky and digging their nails into my arm. Harry drops my hand and walks to the closest group of girls. I cry out in pain as someone pulls my hair, and Zayn wraps his arms around me, shielding me. Once we make it inside, Liam goes to check us in. I look at the others and they are lying on the floor, hair disheveled. I turn to the mirror. My sleeves are missing, and the bottom hemming is tattered beyond repair. One of my mustache earrings has been ripped out, and three bracelets are almost snapped. "Ivy," Zayn says, coming up behind me. "Your arms." My arms are bleeding from the many cuts. "Liam!," Zayn yells, "Give my our room key." Liam hands him a key, saying, "Room 1016. Fix her up then take her shopping." Zayn nods and tugs my inside of the elevator. As the doors close, I start hyperventilating. "Claustrophobic?," he asks worriedly. I nod, and he curses. "I'm sorry," he whispers, pulling me into a hug. Once the doors open, he pulls me off and into the room. He drags me to the bathroom. "Sit," he commands, pointing to the counter. I obey, and he steps in front of me, rinsing the blood off with a wet rag. When he finishes, I gasp. Some of them are at least 1/2 an inch deep. He applies the ointment, the pulls me towards the door. "Zayn." He stops and looks at me, while I motion to my tattered shirt. "Pocketknife," he demands. I give him one and he slices it just above his name. "There we go." "Hey, Zayn," I say. "I want to show you some stuff." He nods. "Right after I speak with the fans."

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